


be all my sins remembered

by hoosierbitch



Series: Shakespeare!AU [1]
Category: Shakespeare RPF, White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Theater, Angst, Community: Sweet Charity, F/M, M/M, Romance, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter never thought he'd see Neal Caffrey again after his fall from grace and departure from the stage. But when The Globe needs a new lead actress, Neal may be his only choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elrhiarhodan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Elrhiarhodan).



> First and foremost, thank you, elrhiarhodan, for bidding on me and for making such a generous donation to Sweet Charity (and then for being so flexible on the prompt!). I hope you like your fic! This story is by far the longest continuous narrative that I've ever written – I know it's far from perfect, but I hope you enjoy it. ♥ I also owe huge thanks to all the folks at fic_finishing – without your support, I never would have gotten this finished! ashcat and bientot were amazing first readers, your cheerleading kept me motivated. (Special thanks to bientot for Satchmo's name!) And last but not least, thank you, afiawri, for the insightful betaing! The many remaining mistakes are all mine.

Their lead actor quits six days after casting. Only three weeks left before they’re scheduled to open, and some two-bit street-corner preacher convinces the boy that getting onstage in a dress is immoral, licentious, and against the teachings of the Church.

Peter Burke would like to find that preacher and shove his script up the man’s self-righteous, interfering arse.

“It’s over,” Will moans, thumping his head down on his desk and staining his forehead with ink.

“It _is_ over,” Burbage agrees, taking a swallow of ale and staring glumly down into his now-empty mug.

“I’ll figure something out,” Peter says. Somehow. He’ll think of something.

He needs to go talk to his wife. She’ll know what to do.

* * *

  
“You’re royally buggered,” she says, leaning over his shoulder to look at the script in front of him. He manfully resists the urge to bang his head against the table.

“Can’t _you_ play the part?”

She laughs and gives him a kiss on the neck before sitting down next to him in a rustle of velvet skirts. “I wouldn’t even if it _weren’t_ banned. I’m very happy with my current occupation, thank you very much.” And, as her balls and fetes draw in most of their income, he really isn’t going to argue.

“It’s too late to cancel or delay the shows,” he mutters, opening his folio and flipping through pages and pages of merchant’s fees and publicity costs, the flyers that have already been printed. “Every other theatre in town’s either in performance or in rehearsals, and none of the actors out of work right now are good enough.”

“It’s an important role?”

“It could be heartbreaking.” He slips the script out from under his papers and passes it over to her. She reads in silence for a few minutes while he contemplates whether he’d be better off jumping to his death from the roof of a building, or a bridge.

“Well. There’s always Neal Caffrey,” she says quietly, handing the script back to him.

“No, there’s not.” He glares at the papers in front of him as if he can somehow intimidate a new answer from them.

“You were all set to hire him when he was first working. From the way you talked about him – well, I was starting to get a bit jealous, to be perfectly honest.”

“I barely even remember the boy.”

“You’re a horrid liar,” she says, her hands on her hips. He’d seen four of the performances the boy had given in his short-lived career. Marveled not only at his beauty, but at his skill. “You wanted him,” she says. He opens his mouth to protest – “for the Chamberlain’s Men.”

“He’s unreliable.” He’d gotten arrested for theft halfway through the run and his company had taken tremendous losses. They’d disbanded a month later due to financial hardship. Caffrey may be brilliant, but Peter doesn’t particularly want to court financial ruin.

He looks at the papers spread out in front of him and realizes that he may already be doing that.

“You know he’s working again, I saw the advert at the market yesterday.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek before heading to the door. “Go see him,” she says. “He might be your only option.”

His wife is beautiful, smart, strong – and right. He goes to his study to get out the flyer he’s been holding onto for the last four years, and barely resists the urge to rub his thumb over the blurred ink of Caffrey’s name.

* * *

  
Caffrey had made quite a splash on the scene, four years back. Thin and pretty, good memorization, decent projection, strong singing voice. He’d been in high demand. Had his pick of companies, all the best roles. Word was Marlowe had been writing a part just for him.

Peter had seen him in _Edward II_. And there was undeniably something…special about him. Some spark that made the leading men raise their game, that made audiences quiet down and lean in closer. Something that said _don’t look away. I’m about to tell you something wonderful_.

Then he’d been arrested for theft.

All of the theatres were precariously perched between the masses and the church, pleading art and providing entertainment. Hiring a thief would have raised an uproar about the licentious nature of the profession.

But it’s been years. And they really are desperate.

* * *

  
The Friar’s Bellow is a truly disgusting venue. He arrives in time to catch the last of the matinee performance, and it – it isn’t good.

He stands in the back and tries to avoid getting spilled on by any of the rowdy crowd members. They’re all crammed into a medium-sized courtyard, crowded around a stage that’s only raised two or three feet off of the ground. He doesn’t get a great view of Caffrey. His memory of the boy is of a time years past, and his expectations have undoubtedly risen in the interim, but – but what he can see makes him feel a little sick. Neal’s face is thin, cheekbones pronounced even underneath what must be a solid inch of makeup. His costume is gaudy, low-cut, and the chest protrudes to a truly unnatural degree. He’s shouting his lines to try and make himself heard, but it’s a lost cause. The comments he’s shouting over are truly disgusting.

Peter has just a moment where he thinks that maybe that two-bit street preacher might have had a point. Listening to the degrading, insulting, explicit shouts and requests from the men around him.

This isn’t what theatre is supposed to be. This isn’t who Neal Caffrey is supposed to be.

After the show ends he slips into the converted stable that passes for a backstage area. He’s performed in worse, sure, back in the early days when they were touring around to every tiny village that they could find on a map – but not much worse. And not in a long time.

Neal and the old man who’d been playing some variation on a grumpy fishwife have their own tiny cubicle. It doesn’t have a door, but he knocks on the frame for form’s sake.

“You may enter,” the old man says with a huge sigh, pulling off his wig and scraping off the bulk of his make-up with the dull side of an eating knife.

“Thank you kindly,” Peter replies, stepping carefully over a pile of…something…and into their dressing room. “I’m actually here to speak with Mr. Caffrey, if you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment of privacy?”

“Mr. Caffrey,” the old man says with a laugh, pulling up his skirts, his fake breasts bouncing around. “You have a gentleman caller! His purse looks full,” he says to Neal with a leer. “Take all the time you need.” He exits the room, cackling the whole way. Peter shifts uncomfortably in the ensuing silence, wondering what about his demeanor hints that he’s seeking some sort of unsavory service.

Neal Caffrey is at once everything he remembered – and more.

He’s never met the boy in person before. Everyone seems different offstage, and Neal is no exception. He’s grown, yes – probably another inch or two in height over the intervening years. He’s also thinner than Peter remembered. Perhaps it was a trick of make-up then, too, but – but up close he can see the boy’s collarbones. The hint of ribs even through the layers of corset and muslin. It’s not unusual for the boy actors to watch their figures, to stay slim in order to play the roles of young girls – but Neal looks fragile.

So, yes, less than he’d remembered. More real, more flawed. But also – also, more. Neal has…presence. Even small and subdued, he radiates _challenge_. Peter can’t pull his eyes away from him.

“You’re the producer for the Globe,” Neal says, a moment after Peter realizes he’s been staring at the boy rather rudely. “Peter Burke.”

“And you’re Neal Caffrey,” Peter says, staring at the pale, thin young man with the impossible blue eyes. “And you are so much better than this.”

Neal smiles at him. And then turns away and continues cleaning his face. Peter waits until he’s finished. Lets Neal remove the last of the reminder of that performance.

“You saw me perform _Edward II_. Four years ago.”

“How did you know?”

“You caused quite a stir,” Neal replies, with a coquettish smile. “Showing up in the audience unannounced. Backstage was all aflutter, wondering who you were scouting. Also, you were wearing that same exact doublet. It’s _atrocious,_ by the way.”

“It’s a _classic_,” Peter replies with a glare, uncomfortably tugging at the edge of the red satin fabric. Elizabeth _had_ been mentioning a new tailor she’d found recently. Maybe that had been a hint…

“Are you here to laugh?” Neal asks quietly. His eyelids are still dark with kohl, his lips an impossible red from the remnants of paint and his vigorous rubbing to remove it. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

He feels a burst of pity but shoves it down. “And I won’t be the last,” he says. “If you stay here.”

Neal raises an eyebrow. “I’m signed on for four more years. It’s the only way they’d hire me,” he says with a shrug. “Given my…history.”

“Given your criminal activity,” Peter says, to see how Neal will react.

He just nods. And plays with the makeup kit on the counter in front of him. Peter hates that he looks so unconcerned. So he grabs his wrist and pulls his arm close. Neal doesn’t protest. His wrist is thin, Peter’s hand circles it and his fingers overlap. He wonders how many men have come into this small room after one of Neal’s performances and asked for a private show.

He can feel the scar. The raised skin covered by a layer of skin-tone makeup. He scrapes his fingernail over it, revealing pale skin and a harsh black M, burned into the brawn of Neal’s thumb.

“I only cover it during performances,” Neal says quietly. “I know – I know I’m not to conceal it otherwise.”

“I’m here to offer you a job.” The only reaction Neal gives is the quickening of his pulse. Peter can feel it under the tips of his fingers. He knows he should let go. “A trial,” he elaborates, holding on for just a bit longer. “We’re short a lead actress for our newest play. It opens in a week. We can buy out your contract for that long. And if things work out – maybe longer.”

“So I’d – I’d be working for the Globe?” Neal asks, a bit of awe in his voice. Peter tightens his grip and Neal gasps at the painful pressure.

“No. You’d be working for _me_. If you screw up, it’s on my head. If you can’t learn your lines, if you ruin a performance, if you have another error in judgment and decide to run and get caught again – I’ll be sorry, Neal. But you’ll be sorrier.” Neal nods quickly and tugs at Peter’s grasp. “You break your contract and you’d be lucky to get away with just a lashing. Breach of contract counts as a second offense.” And the courts love to throw their weight around. “Am I understood?”

There’s a flush high in Neal’s cheeks, and Peter realizes, looking at him, that it’s the first time he’s seen him without make-up on. Seen him without a role to play. He’s disconcertingly handsome. “And if I don’t screw up?” Neal asks, still not meeting Peter’s eyes. “What happens then?”

Peter lets go and looks at the white imprint his fingers have left around Neal’s wrist. “Then you get to be a part of the best theatre troupe in London. Rehearsals start at daybreak tomorrow morning.” He pulls a script out of his bag and tosses it onto the counter. “Prepare for your first three scenes.”

“What’s the part?” Neal asks, already leafing through the script.

“Ophelia,” Peter replies, and he takes his leave.

* * *

  
He goes to a bar and stays there until the sun goes down and the streetlamps are lit. Tries to drink away the memory of Neal’s soft skin under his hands, the way his blood had been pounding in his veins. Wonders whether it’s bad luck or kismet that’s brought them together so neatly. Whether it should be a sign or a warning.

Elizabeth’s still awake when he gets home, and she helps strip him of his clothes. “Did he take the bait?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs into the soft skin of her breast, letting her pull the covers over them both. Doesn’t know whether he’d be better off with or without Neal Caffrey crashing through his carefully ordered life, knocking it all out of place just by being himself. Neal Caffrey with his slim waist and harsh scars and unmistakable talent. “I really don’t know.”

* * *

  
He gets his answer quite early the following morning. Because Neal goddamn Caffrey is _in his house_, on his _couch_, drinking _tea_ with his _wife_. It takes him a moment to recognize the man. Clean and fresh, dressed in dapper clothes – dressed in _men’s_ clothing. Out-of-date but obviously expensive, well-made. It seems strange to not see the man in a dress.

Neal smiles an easy hello when he sees Peter on the stairs. As if they’ve been playing a one-sided game of hide-and-seek and Peter’s inadvertently won.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he asks, straightening his clothes, feeling caught-out and uncomfortably exposed on home ground.

“I had an idea,” Neal says, waving his script with a flourish. “My landlady has a dress that I can use for Ophelia – I know your last actress was a bit smaller than me, so this way you won’t have to pay to get the clothes tailored!”

“That’s great,” Peter says, and Neal and Elizabeth beam at him. “I’d like to have breakfast with my wife, now.”

Neal nods enthusiastically.

“_Alone_,” he says pointedly.

“Ah, right, excellent!” Neal stands up and gives Elizabeth a goodbye kiss on the back of her hand. She’s obviously charmed by the young man’s attention. So is Satchmeaux, who tries to follow him out the door.

“This is not going to end well,” he says darkly. El just laughs and kisses his cheek and makes sure he takes a croissant with him to give to Neal.

* * *

  
“You’re mad,” Burbage says. He’s got a new mug of ale, but is wearing the same clothes and depressed look on his face. “Hiring some no-good layabout for such a delicate part. This play requires _artists_, not boys prancing about in petticoats.” Peter doesn’t respond. Just looks down at the empty stage, the actors sitting around doing nothing, Will tearing out what’s left of his hair in the corner, loose pages of the script scattered around him.

“Then why are _you_ in it?” John shouts from where he’s lying prone on the floor.

“Because no one _else_ in the godforsaken _pit_ of a theatre has one goddamn _drop_ of talent in the marrow their overacting _bones_!” Burbage bellows. And as the echoes of his exclamation die down, Neal Caffrey enters.

He waves up at Peter. Gives everyone else a jaunty grin. “I’ve arrived,” he announces, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “Shall we begin?”

“He’s too old,” Burbage grumbles. “He’s too old and he’s arrogant and I don’t like his face. Or his attitude. Or his – ”

“Either put the ale down and go start rehearsal, or I will have to play the part of Hamlet myself,” Peter says simply.

“Oh, heaven forbid!” Burbage cries, in mock outrage. “I would sooner see the role played by a _dog_! Or a child! Or a mute, deaf, drunk – ”

“Be gone with you,” Peter says distractedly, watching Neal introduce himself to the other actors. Neal’s a master of body language, but from his angle above Peter can see how the slight tension in his shoulders, the careful way he holds his right hand tilted away, how every so often he has to reset the smile on his face. As soon as Burbage hits the floor the energy changes. Everyone get up and starts moving, grabbing scripts and props, stretching and repeating their lines to themselves quietly. Burbage goes up to Neal and shakes his hand, and Peter watches Neal’s body language change from confident to respectful.

“We shall start,” Burbage announces, “from the top. To give our new Ophelia the chance to see how the Chamberlain’s Men work. We’ll carry on after your entrance,” he says to Neal, “and simply see how things flow from there.” Neal thanks him and walks over to Peter, who shifts over on his bench to make room.

“How long is it before my entrance?” Neal asks quietly, when the other actors have taken their places.

Peter groans. “You haven’t even read the script, have you? Oh, god, this is going to be a disaster…”

“No, I did, but – I just concentrated on my scenes. To prepare for today. I will read it, though. You can trust me, Peter. I’m not going to let you down.”

“I’ll trust you when you’ve earned it,” Peter grumbles. “You’ve got two scenes to wait. Do you know your cue?” Neal nods. Peter looks at the script being twisted nervously in his hands. “Be careful with that,” he says. “If it needs replacing, the cost comes from your wages.”

There’s a reason The Globe is the most popular theatre in London. And that reason is Richard Burbage. He not only takes command of the stage, he takes command of the entire theatre. The other actors respect him, listen to him, obey him. When he speaks, they listen. And when he’s speaking Will Shakespeare’s words – _everyone_ listens. It’s a combination that’s yet to fail. And _Hamlet, Prince of Denmark_ could very well be their finest collaboration yet.

Neal watches everything carefully. The entrances and exits, every gesture – he watches so closely that Peter almost asks him what, exactly, he’s looking at. What he’s watching for that Peter can’t see. And when Neal hears his cue, Peter pats him solidly (if, perhaps, a bit too heartily) on the shoulder, and watches him make his way to the stage, all the nervousness leaving his body.

He knows from the moment Neal enters that he’s made the right decision. John Heminges, their Laertes, knows too. Neal may be a tad old for Ophelia, but he knows how to move like a young woman, how to speak like one. Carefully, softly, intelligently. He _listens_, and Peter can see John responding, his monologues coming to life – he chides his younger sister, admonishes her, very obviously cares for her.

And Hughes’ Polonius has never been so honest. Neal listens to her aged father prattle on with a small smile and as much respect as he can muster, and Hughes basks in the attention. It’s already playing better than the scene ever has before.

Neal handles Will’s difficult script with ease, plays the loving sister and obedient daughter with scarcely a hitch. Richard shouts out the blocking directions from the front of the stage, and there are only a few confused moments as everyone rearranges. Peter just sits back, crosses his arms behind his head, and smiles.

Will wanders up to him as they’re busy resetting props for the next scene. “Well don’t _you_ look self-satisfied,” he jibes, eyes not leaving the stage.

“With good reason.” His gamble’s paying off. In _spades_.

“I’ve got to go,” Will murmurs. “I think I may have a scene or two I need to rewrite…” He makes his way distractedly back to where he left his papers and quills, and starts scribbling down notes furiously.

* * *

  
Oddly, it gets worse as time passes. The other actors have been together for years, and it’s a camaraderie that’s hard to infiltrate. Especially for someone who’s young and pretty and insanely talented. Neal knows that if they had any better option, any man within their own ranks with the necessary set of skills, that he’d be back on the streets in seconds.

But he still tries. He fetches snacks during breaks, picks up the props, listens attentively. Tries to ingratiate himself. And it’s working, but slowly. Ophelia’s a relatively small role and the atmosphere downstairs is far from welcoming, so whenever Neal needs a break, he always comes back to Peter.

He asks pointless questions about seat count and revenue and whatever else he can think of until Peter tells him to shut his mouth. And then he’ll just play with whatever Peter has lying around – paperweights or rubber stamps, letter openers and small statues. It’s like having a six-year stepping all over his toes. An irritation with a wicked sense of humor and slim wrists and a wry smile.

Since hiring Neal Caffrey, Peter’s not gotten very much work done.


	2. Chapter 2

One early morning he walks past Neal’s dressing room, only to be pulled inside when Cruz calls him in to help lace up Neal’s corset. Cruz is pushing Neal around, twisting the corset that’s tied around his midsection. “This has to fit,” she says, frowning at Neal’s ribs as if they’ve personally offended her. Neal sways and clutches at his chest.

“Peter, help, I’m being _suffocated_ – ”

“Drama queen,” Cruz mutters. “Peter, just give those laces a tug and see if you can’t get it to stretch just a bit more.”

“It won’t stretch,” Neal protests, shying away from Peter. “My ribs are going to _crack_ first!”

Cruz glares at him until he stands still. Peter swallows and wraps the cords of the corset around his hands. Neal holds onto the doorframe, and Peter pulls. It feels shockingly intimate. Neal gasping with every move Peter makes, his body rocking back against Peter’s hands. He gets the corset to tighten but it’s obviously too small. Neal’s breath comes fast and shallow, straining the fabric with every movement.

“Damn. I was hoping that would work. We’re going to need to get a new one made,” she says, and Peter hastily undoes the knot in the back of the corset. Neal sags against him gratefully, his breath coming in exaggerated gasps.

“Go see Jones,” he says, giving Neal a shove out the door. “He’ll take you to the tailor.” Neal nods and goes to search out Peter’s right-hand man, who will hopefully be able to keep Neal out of trouble long enough to get him to the tailor’s and back in one piece. Cruz watches Neal leave with an unpleasant expression on her face.

“Why do you hate him so much?”

She sighs and runs her hands over the boning in the discarded corset. “I don’t. Not really. It’s just – well. I saw him on stage, back before his fall from grace. I was new to London, and his was the first show I saw. And he was – amazing. Refined, and beautiful. Inspiring,” she says, with a self-deprecating smirk. “It’s hard to see him now in person. Out of character, out of costume, and just…”

“Human,” Peter adds. With faults and foibles, irritating quirks, imperfections.

“Annoying,” Cruz says pointedly, before sitting up straight and getting back to work. “I don’t have time to play the audience for his one-man show, that’s all. Now if you don’t mind, Peter, I’ve really got quite a lot of work to do.” He nods and leaves her to her work.

The first time he’d met Will, he’d been woefully underwhelmed. He’d wanted to meet someone who had all of the best characteristics of the plays he’d written, of kings and princes and villains, to be smart and charismatic and eloquent.

And the real William Shakespeare is simply not like that. He’s constantly behind on his rent, paranoid to a fault, and he never can seem to stop chewing on his quills. He’s perceptive and insightful, with an undeniable gift – but he’s also forgetful and frustrating and occasionally, very hard to work with. Peter loves him as a colleague. Admires him as a man. But when he sees his finished products up on stage, he pretends he doesn’t know who the playwright is.

It’s…it’s not quite the same, with Neal. Because – because as slick and controlled as he is on stage, as easily as he lies, as expertly as he pretends – Peter likes him so much better when he’s tired, and sweaty, dressed in old clothes. When he’s honest.

* * *

  
Ruiz is a bastard. Always has been, always will be. An infuriating thorn in Peter’s side. And now the master of the revels has passed over the Globe for the upcoming performance for the queen, and given it to Ruiz. Goddamn _Ruiz_, who prefers bloodshed to poetry and wouldn’t know art if Peter beat him over the head with it. Which he has often been tempted to do.

His life doth truly _sucketh_.

“You look like someone ran over your dog,” Neal says, sitting next to him with a worried look. “Wait – nothing’s happened to Satchmeaux, has it?”

“No,” Peter says with a weary sigh. “The dog’s fine.”

“Hmm,” Neal says, tapping his finger on his chin. “Then what is it?”

“Money,” he says. “Or rather – a lack of money.” Neal’s staring at the official letter Peter’s been crumpling in his hand all morning, the royal seal clearly visible, so Peter quickly files it away. Neal’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t bring it up. Just sighs and bumps his shoulder against Peter’s, a casual, easy movement. And for some reason Peter stiffens and moves away. Checks to make sure no one is watching them.

“Why don’t you go down and mingle with the actors for a bit?” Neal asks. “You know the Chamberlain’s Men _excel_ at distraction. And they’re working on a really delightful scene right now.”

“No thanks,” he sighs. “The Men delight not me.”

Neal raises an eyebrow.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says with a groan. Neal holds his hands up and shrugs, stands up and backs away with a smug grin. “That is _not what I meant_,” he grumbles, leaving his papers alone and following Neal down the steps. They brush past Will, who’s unusually preoccupied with the page in front of him.

* * *

  
“I’ve changed your last song,” Will announces triumphantly, spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose. Peter fights down the urge to push them back up. Neal, however, can’t help himself, and he reaches out to adjust Will’s glasses for him. Will stares at them both cross-eyed with surprise for a moment.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Peter asks carefully.

“I’ll sleep when I pass out from exhaustion,” he replies dismissively. “Now, look, I’ve made it longer, and better, and it – you’ll love it,” he says, shoving the papers at Neal. “Go on, give it a read!” Neal holds the pages up carefully and starts to scan them. “Read it out _loud_, by all that’s holy,” Will exclaims with an exaggerated eye-roll. “I need to know if what I wrote is gibberish or brilliance, and I won’t know that until I hear it spoken!”

Neal rolls his eyes. “You writers and your neuroses. Just go back to work and I’ll come back in a few hours with it properly prepared, alright?”

“Oh, go on, give it a read.” Will is bouncing around on the balls of his feet like a child and Peter wants to know what it is that’s got him so excited. It must be something special.

“No, really, I’m quite busy,” Neal says, despite the fact that he and Peter had wasted nearly half an hour arguing about what Peter should buy El for their upcoming anniversary (Peter wanted to get her a new desk, Neal insisting a new gown would be more appropriate). And then Neal actually starts to walk away. Will looks a bit hurt and Peter’s not feeling right about it himself. He grabs Neal’s wrist, the papers still in Neal’s hand crinkling as his fingers tighten into a fist.

“Read it,” he orders, putting his hands on his hips and doing his best to look intimidating. Because he’d hired Neal to do a _job_, and part of that job involves keeping the playwright happy.

“I _can’t_,” Neal whispers to him in an angry aside.

“Is my handwriting so bad?” Will reaches for the papers. Neal doesn’t release them.

“I’m sure the lettering is fine.” And then Neal _fidgets_. Not something Peter’s ever seen him do before. “It’s just that – ” He’s fidgeting and blushing and Will keeps shifting his weight urgently, waiting for Neal to explain himself, and Peter’s distracted enough by Will’s apparently deteriorating mental health that he doesn’t figure it out. “I don’t know _how_,” he says in a quiet, angry voice, his face heating to a dark red. “I didn’t – I don’t know how,” he repeats, jaw clenched and eyes downturned. Peter’s never really seen him angry before. So desperately ashamed.

“Ah,” Will says, looking understandably uncomfortable. “That’s – well. That’s a bit different.”

“How on earth have you learned your lines thus far?” Peter interrupts.

“Moz – you met him, the other night.” Right. The small, nervous man who’d been hanging around outside the theatre, the one Jones had chased away before Neal had explained who he was. Neal’s still staring at the pages in his hands, as if by sheer force of will he can make himself understand what’s writ on them.

“That’s quite a gift,” Will says softly. “To have a friend so loyal, and a mind so quick.” Neal looks up at him – shattered surprise masking some of his hurt. And Peter’s reminded again that his absentminded friend is one of the smartest men he knows. To be able to see into the heart of Neal’s shame and treat it so delicately. “Peter, you shall have the honor of reading my immortal words to my new favorite leading lady – don’t tell the other leading ladies that, though,” he says quickly, “Gertrude’s got a mean right hook. But it’s – you’ll love it, Neal, you really will,” he says, looking fondly down at his haphazard words scrawled across the page.

Neal thanks him and Peter takes the papers. “Come back as soon as you’re ready, I can’t wait to hear it,” Will says before scurrying away to do something else foolish and impossible and brilliant. Or maybe (_hopefully_) to get some goddamn sleep.

They sit down on the Peter’s bench and Peter starts to read. Neal just stares straight ahead, as stiff as if he were tightly laced into a corset already, his body practically vibrating with tension.

“There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me – ”

“I’m not stupid.” Neal’s interruption is fierce and hurt and Peter winces at how young Neal sounds.

“I know.”

“It’s just that no one ever taught me, not that I can’t learn. There’s a difference,” and the defiance in his voice clearly demonstrates how fragile that distinction is. How important. “I can do my job,” he whispers, still staring straight ahead. “Please. I can still do this job.”

Peter looks at the words scrawled onto the page in front of him and knows that there’s a world of difference between being able to read them and being able to bring them to life. Peter knows the mechanics, but Neal knows the art. “You’re not stupid.”

He waits while Neal unbends from his rigid pose. Waits while he collects himself.

“There’s fennel for you,” Neal says, and Peter turns back to the page. “And columbines.”

“There’s rue for you and here’s some for me, we may call it herb grace o’ Sundays.” He looks over when Neal doesn’t repeat the next part of the line and realizes how close they’re sitting. Neal’s face is inches away. He leans back but there’s – there’s a breath of a moment caught between them when Neal’s eyes flicker to his lips.

“You’re a good man,” Neal says as he moves a few inches down the bench, as though repeating a mantra, as though he’s reminding himself of something.

“So are you.”

Neal’s smile is quick and fake. “There’s rue for you,” he parrots.

“And here’s some for me.”

* * *

  
They eat lunch together most days. Neal will talk him into treating (or just steal his purse and use his money anyway) and Peter will grumble and pretend that he minds. It’s better than eating lunch alone. And he can bear to part with a few shillings, Neal can’t.

Most days they eat lunch out on the street, sitting squished together on a bench or a low wall. Today they’re outside a church, leaning against the iron railing, snacking on fresh fruit.

“This really is the best city in the world,” Neal muses as they watch the crowd go by. Beggars and carriages, guards and pickpockets, a busy swirl of language and necessity. The street preacher who’d scared away their first Ophelia wanders past, ranting loudly.

“Just don’t pay him any attention.”

“I don’t know,” Neal says thoughtfully. “I caught his sermon on sodomy a few weeks ago. I think I learned some new tricks. He’s very descriptive.”

“You’re a madman,” Peter replies, trying not to think about what tricks Neal may or may not know.

“And you hired me,” Neal says primly. “So what does that make you?”

“Desperate.” Neal laughs, and then fidgets. Peter can’t tell if the slight blush on his cheeks is due to the heat of the day, or the new dye the wardrobe mistress had been trying to match to his skin tone, or something else entirely. He’s not the best at interpreting subtle emotions so he just elbows Neal hard in the side. “What’s going on?”

“Moz – my friend who’s been helping me read? He’s out of town,” Neal says, biting his lip and staring at the apple core in his hand. “And Will changed the order of my second scene. So I don’t know any of the cue lines anymore.” His blush has grown fiercer, as has the stubborn set of his jaw. “And I was. I was wondering if possibly if you’re not busy and your wife doesn’t mind, if you could read the script with me? Or not. Sometime later.”

He really should say no. “Come over for dinner,” is what comes out of his mouth instead.

It will be lovely. He knows it will be. Neal’s a charmer, eloquent and intelligent and Peter doesn’t know how he’s ever going to be able to get Neal out of his life once he’s made himself at home there. And he wouldn’t worry, but it’s just that – that there’s something unnatural, something – something dangerous about how perfectly they fit together. Something that he knows he should be wary of.

But Neal’s tense expression relaxes into a smile, so Peter shoves his uncertainty aside, and starts planning what they can make for dinner.

“Thank you,” Neal says, nibbling on the last of his apple, staring down at their boots. He knocks his foot against Peter’s and Peter kicks him back.

He feels like a schoolchild. A schoolchild and a romantic lead and a clown all rolled into one. _I like him_, he realizes, as they head back to work.

The sun’s hot and the scent of London streets is nearly overwhelming and Neal’s bright smile draws an instant answer from his lips. He promises himself that he will be careful (he recognizes it for a lie but leaves it alone).

They get to write their own stories; he gets to create his own ending. He likes Neal’s smile. Likes his smile and his blush and his hands. Neal can come over for dinner.

* * *

  
Neal and Elizabeth get on like a house on fire. Which is a likely outcome, as they’re both busy in the kitchen, knives and candles and fire flashing through the air. They banished him to the stool in the corner after he cut his hand whilst chopping onion. He watches them cook with Satchmeaux curled around his feet, script open in his lap, playing with the bookmark Neal had made for him out of a piece of scratch paper he’d been using to practice his letters. They’re up to G, and the letter circles around the edges of the flower’s sharp petals, A’s fill their centers, the letter B decorated with wings and legs perches on the heart of the flower, preparing to fly away.

“Good my lord,” Neal says, bending in a pretty curtsy before pouring them all some more wine. “How does your honor for this many a day?”

Peter flips the page and reads Hamlet’s part. “I humbly thank you; well, well, well.”

“What, exactly, is this scene about?” El interrupts.

“It’s about young, silly love,” Peter says, stretching his legs out and nearly tripping Neal in the process. Neal stumbles against the counter. “And going through a messy break up."

“It’s – it’s not quite that,” Neal says, a pretty frown on his face. “It’s – Ophelia and Hamlet are in love, right? And she’s just been told to end the relationship for Hamlet’s sake. She does it, because she thinks it’s in his best interest, and she loves him enough to want to protect him, even if it means that she’ll lose him. Only Hamlet’s too wrapped up in his schemes to even speak to her. But he – I think he still feels it.” El’s stopped cooking to listen. “I mean, how can he not be hurt? He thought Ophelia was the one, and here she is, leaving him when he needs her most. So he lashes out.”

“It’s quite an intense scene,” Peter interjects. “He tries to make it so she’ll never come back to him. It’s better for both of them that way,” he says, and he’s not as quick with his words as Neal but he knows what he wants to say. “Better that she leaves then, and not get hurt later on.”

“Things are never that simple,” Neal replies softly.

No. Not in life, and thus, not in the play. Dinner’s nearly finished and the room’s full of heat from the fire and the scent of meat and spices. Satchmeaux’s sound asleep and Elizabeth’s still sipping at her wine. “I can’t wait to see the play,” she says.

Peter’s kind of looking forward to it being over.

After dinner El goes up to their bedroom to work and he and Neal settle in on the couch to keep running lines. “I did love you once,” Peter says, a comfortable echo of Burbage’s reading filling his voice.

“Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so,” Neal answers in a quiet voice. It would never carry onstage, but it works, here. Brave and confused.

“You should not have believed me,” Peter continues. “I loved you not.”

And the echo’s grown uncomfortable. Literally too close to home, sitting on his couch in his living room, his wife a floor away, Neal’s delicate face in a frown of concentration. “I was the more deceived.”

Peter closes his script. “It’s late. And we’ve gone over all of the new material. Perhaps we should call it a night?”

Neal gets up in a hurry, smoothing his clothes and hair, peering out the window. The streetlights have been lit, the moon long since taken the sun’s place. “Thank you for having me,” he says with a smile, his hand a bit outstretched as if he can’t figure out whether to shake Peter’s hand or wave or – or something else entirely. Peter stares at the scar on his palm and doesn’t respond. “You have a lovely home.” His fingers falter and he picks up his script, holds it in front of him like a shield. Peter realizes he’s holding his the same way.

He shows Neal out the door and watches him walk down the street. Wonders what home Neal came from and what home he’s going back to that inspired such a melancholy farewell. Peter’s grateful for his nice home and beautiful wife and comfortable life. He worked for them. Earned them. And Neal hasn’t. He reminds himself of that as Neal’s slim figure is obscured by the heavy fog, walking home alone, before he goes upstairs to his wife.

* * *

  
Two days later he’s about to leave when he walks past the open door of Neal’s dressing room and sees John in there speaking with him. It’s a parody of their first scene together. Older brother, obedient sister. A parody because John has no business telling Neal what to do, a parody because Neal is more angry than obedient. He looks ready to snap, his hands in fists at his side, his jaw clenched. Peter’s ashamed to say it’s…it’s not an unattractive look on him.

John leaves when he sees Peter approaching, brushing past him in the hallway. “What was that about?” he asks, leaning slowly against the wall a few feet away from Neal, giving him space and time to collect himself.

“A warning,” Neal says, taking a deep breath and uncurling his hands, lacing them in front of him.

“A warning about what?” Peter asks with a frown, looking Neal over to see if he’s stuffed anything valuable in his pockets.

Neal’s voice, when he answers, is tense, deeper than Peter’s heard before – it sounds more like Neal and less like an act. Sounds…hurt. “I feel like Hamlet,” Neal says, swallowing hard and stepping back. “Everyone’s giving me the cold shoulder. Even Moz – they’re all telling me I’d better leave you alone. That – that I’m dangerous to you.”

Neal doesn’t look like a threat. Not someone that Peter needs defending from. But the danger has never been from Neal’s strength, not his allure nor his flirtations. The threat has always been Peter forgetting why he needs to resist.

“John thinks I’m trying to use you,” Neal says quietly. “For money, or job security.” He shrugs, a small shift of bare shoulders, Peter’s doing his best not to stare.

“So if you’re Hamlet, does that make me Ophelia?” he asks, in a lame attempt to try and move the conversation back to lighter ground.

Neal smiles at him. And it’s maybe the saddest smile he’s ever seen. “No,” Neal whispers. “I fear I am Hamlet and Ophelia, all in one. Mad and alone. And living a one-sided love story,” he says, looking at Peter like a hungry child being denied the one thing he wants. And Peter wants to interrupt, wants to leave, he doesn’t want to be playing a part in a tragedy. “I am Hamlet and Ophelia both,” Neal says. “And you should go home to your wife.”

Not all of acting is pretending. Not all of it is lying. At its best it is about being revealing truth and pain and the honesty. And Neal knows, better than most actors Peter’s seen, how to open himself up. How to shove his pain and fear and his impossible vulnerability out on stage. And now Peter is his audience of one, and Neal is baring his soul, and Peter is – Peter is going to leave him, and go home to his wife.


	3. Chapter 3

He goes to work the next morning and sits on his bench and waits for Neal, who walks over midday when summoned, nonchalance radiating from every line of his body. Except for his tense hands, which always give him away. Burbage has been hollering at him about it for days.

“So,” Peter says. “The master of the revels has withdrawn his favor from Ruiz’s production.”

“Very interesting,” Neal says, in a tone that implies it is, in fact, anything but.

“Apparently, a stolen bible was found in his possession.”

“A book of hours,” Neal corrects. “Or at least – that’s what the word is on the street.”

Peter stares at his folded hands, resting on his open ledger, and he wonders if he can really afford to call Neal on his deception. If the Globe can afford it, if he and Elizabeth can.

“No,” he says softly. “Word on the street is that it’s a bible. That’s the word on the street, and in the courts, and in the official report that was filed.”

“Huh,” Neal says with a shrug. “We must have different sources.” His face is bland and unconcerned.

If Peter hadn’t been staring at Neal’s hands looking for hints of his mood he wouldn’t have noticed it. The edge of a bandage, poking out from the bottom of his sleeve, a quick flash of white. He grabs Neal’s wrist and the other man tenses immediately. He pushes Neal’s sleeve up carefully over the bandage.

“What’s this?”

“Cut myself shaving.”

The lie is insulting. Neal’s got a brand on his palm and a wound on his wrist, and Peter – Peter can’t not look. There’s a limit to what he can turn a blind eye to. He peels the bandage back gently. Looks at the marks before gently smoothing it back down.

“Ruiz had two guard dogs, last time I visited,” he says, his thumb smoothing small circles over the fabric.

“I’ll keep that in mind, should I ever visit his estate.”

Peter lets go of his wrist and almost lets him walk away. “Neal?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” Because the balance of his ledger has always been precarious and Neal may not know his letters but he’s got his numbers down. “Neal?” he calls again after his retreating back.

“What?”

“You ever do something that goddamn stupid again, and I’ll see that you’re flogged for it.”

Neal smiles fondly at him and Peter feels overwhelmed by useless anger. “You’re welcome.”

An hour later a messenger from the court arrives, bearing a belated invitation to perform _Hamlet_ for her majesty. He sends back a polite acceptance. And keeps the invitation. Holds it for a while, weighing it in his hands – the thick velour, the raised lines, a single grain of sand stuck in the ink. They’d sent it off before it had a chance to dry.

He opens a blank folio and files it away. Puts the folder in the bottom of his lowest drawer and wonders what else Neal will bring him, what other impossible gifts Peter won’t be strong enough to refuse.

* * *

  
He does his best, after that, to create some distance between them. To go back to his old routines.

It feels as though he has been living someone else’s life – new and exciting and a lie – and going back to his old one is a shock. He goes home every day for lunch, stops watching rehearsals, does his work in Will’s cramped office with the door closed. Stops doing everything that would bring him close to Neal.

He’d rather be a poor producer than a failed husband.

Opening night comes a week too soon, as always. Elizabeth never comes to the first performances, because every time she has, something’s gone terribly wrong. So he’s sitting in the audience alone (keeping an eye on Neal’s strange bald friend who’s lurking in a corner) when everything goes sideways. Neal’s corset tears during his fight with Hamlet. A seam down the side begins to split as Burbage pushes Ophelia down to the floor, the sound of it rips through the air.

They manage to stumble through the rest of the scene with Neal keeping his right arm tight against his side to hold it up. And it lasts through the following scene, too, since all Neal has to do is sit and watch the play-within-a-play. But towards the end he can see the clumsy, last-minute stitches beginning to come apart again.

When Neal re-enters in the next act, he’s wearing a different gown. A different corset. One of Augustine’s old ones – and it is much too small. He remembers when Neal had tried it on, how quickly it had become unbearable, and he wants to call an end to the whole thing. Wants to stand up and get onstage and tell Neal to cut it out, because he can already see Neal struggling for air. His breath is coming in fast, shallow bursts – no one else in the audience seems to notice (and, indeed, it is almost fitting for Ophelia’s mad, rambling songs) – but during a pause Neal looks right at him. Neal always knows where Peter’s sitting – during rehearsals, he used to look up and roll his eyes or grin or make faces. Today he just looks scared.

Peter pushes his way through the crowd and out of the theatre, runs around the outside, and through the back entrance. He arrives backstage just in time for Ophelia’s last song. He curses how long it is (curses Will for having written it in the first place) and waits, his fingernails digging painful crescents into his palms, and watches Neal struggle to breathe. It’s maybe five minutes from the moment Neal looked at him until he gets backstage. Five minutes of counting down the seconds and watching Neal’s face flush and then go pale. Watching his chest rise and fall at a pace that is much too fast.

He sings his last song and he sounds terrible, and frightened, and hurt. The audience is completely silent. It’s the best performance Neal’s given yet. And as soon as he exits the stage, he collapses.

Cruz is there, too, but when Neal falls it’s Peter who catches him. He glares at Cruz and the lone stagehand who’d run over, and they make themselves scarce. He supports Neal’s weight with one arm and pulls the knife from his belt with the other. He ignores Neal as he tries to get away, fighting Peter’s grasp, lightheaded and disoriented (_a glint of sharp metal coming closer to him_). He’s sobbing for breath, high, panicked sounds.

“Calm down,” he whispers, pressing Neal against the wall with one hand and cutting the laces on the corset with the other (and just the laces, only a few extra seconds - they can be replaced cheaply. Satin can’t).

He has to cut the knot on the corset, it’s pulled too tightly to work out. He nicks Neal’s skin with the point of the knife and it drips on the white cotton. He throws the corset to the side and holds Neal upright, his hands on Neal’s bare skin. Pressing him up against the wall.

Words from the now-familiar script echo through the thin wall, it’s all that separates them from thousands of viewers.

Neal’s first free breath is loud. Loud enough that Peter immediately claps a hand over his mouth – Ophelia drowns, offstage, she doesn’t _suffocate_, and he’d hate to confuse the audience. Hate to step back. Step away.

Neal’s gasping for air around Peter’s hand, holding himself up on Peter’s shoulders, and then he’s just crying. Peter’s holding his hand over Neal’s mouth and his tears run down the edge of his hand, over the tips of his fingers. He’s been missing Neal since the first day they didn’t eat lunch together, missing him every time he worked in his office for more than an hour without some ridiculous interruption. He honestly hadn’t thought that Neal would miss him the same way.

“Peter,” Neal sobs, out of breath and out of line and alone. And Peter wonders where Neal has been eating lunch the past week, where he’s been spending all of the time he used to spend with Peter. Wonders how hard it’s been for Neal, awkward and unexpectedly abandoned, while Peter’s been soldiering away in the solitude of Will’s office.

Neal’s fingers are digging into his shoulders painfully tightly. His eyes are wide and red and creased with pain. Peter takes his hand from Neal’s mouth when his breathing steadies and just – just holds him. They slide to the ground, Peter’s back against the wall. He gives Neal as much comfort as he can. Wraps his arms tight around shaking shoulders, knowing that he’s the cause of Neal’s pain, knowing he can’t do anything to fix it.

When the play draws to a close Cruz approaches with Neal’s hastily reassembled corset in her hands. “The bows,” she whispers. “He’s got to go back out.”

Watching Neal pull himself together is excruciating. Peter knows how he works, how easily he slips in and out of character, Ophelia a familiar mask to wear. But not today. He stands up slowly, stiff and ungainly, he looks like an old man trapped in someone else’s body. His make-up’s run and Cruz wipes it away. Helps him into the corset, her hands calm and capable.

Neal looks back at him (still sitting crouched against the wall) before he enters the stage. With his make-up gone and his eyes still red, a loved, familiar face. In pain. Peter looks away first. And sits there as the audience cheers and claps and yells.

He’s never wanted to cheat on his wife before. Not for more than a handful of little moments – a daydream born from a glimpse of a prostitute’s breasts or a pair of strong thighs, watching the actors rehearse a love scene. He loves his wife. And he wants Neal. He leaves before the actors exit the stage, the tumultuous applause following him out the door and into the busy London streets.

* * *

  
It’s already late by the time the afterparty begins, and the mood is high. The first performance was a success, the performance for the queen so close they can practically taste it, all of their weeks of work finally come to fruition. The wine flows freely and the musicians play loudly (if not particularly well) and loud laughter fills the pub.

He’s on his own for the night. Or not on his own, exactly, not with Neal again plastered against his side and everyone else rotating around their corner booth. Burbage pops in and out every so often, always with a new woman on his arm. Jones and Cruz only stay for a few minutes before disappearing up a small staircase together. Will arrives about an hour later and delivers a terrible revision of Hamlet’s speech. “To pee, or not to pee.” He’s drunk enough that the answer is a run to the bathroom as soon as he’s finished.

When the press of smoke and noise gets to be too much he and Neal slip out the back into a seldom-used courtyard. The sounds from inside are muffled by stone walls, the buzz of it contrasting oddly with the stillness of the air, the clear starry sky.

Peter leans against the wall and stares up at the sky. “We did it.”

“It would seem so.”

“You were magnificent,” Peter says, because he was. “Will is already planning what he should write for you next.”

“Something where I don’t die halfway through, I hope.”

“But you die with such _flair_.” Neal elbows him and he laughs. It echoes, the small stone overhang bringing their sound back to them. “You exceeded my expectations,” he says, and it sounds a bit more private, a bit more proprietary than he’d meant. "I'm glad you'll be with us for the next show."

“We should go back in." Peter pulls Neal towards him when he starts to leave.

“You were amazing,” Peter insists. He tries to give Neal a hug. Neal evades his grasp and starts toward the door. “Come on,” Peter says, with a roll of his eyes. “Just a hug, you were wonderful tonight – ” He tugs Neal towards him and when their torsos are pressed together he feels Neal’s cock against his thigh. It doesn’t seem real until he says it. “You’re hard.” Neal doesn’t pull back. He just stays in the circle of Peter’s arms, his back as stiff as a board, and nods. The curls of his hair brush against Peter’s cheek. “Because of me?”

“Yes, because of you.” Neal voice cracks halfway through and he tries to twist out of Peter’s grasp. “But it doesn’t have to mean anything. I know you don’t – ”

Neal’s cock fits perfectly in the palm of his hand. From the tips of his fingers to the base of his thumb, he curls his hand around it, brave in his curiosity.

There are layers of satin between his hand and Neal’s erection. He doesn’t know if the heat he feels is real or imagined, but he can feel the burn spread through his hand, his body, the flush of his face. He knows he doesn’t imagine the involuntary jerk of Neal’s hips.

He doesn’t know when or why he decided to do this but now that he’s done it, it seems – terrifying. They stay frozen in that moment. Neal doesn’t move, Peter doesn’t know how. If nothing happens he can take his hand back and the night air will cool his body down, they’ll drink until they can’t remember that Peter ever made this foolish move. Neal takes a shaky breath and Peter squeezes him gently. He gasps, and Peter wants to kiss him. Wants to feel skin against his palm instead of satin to see how the sensation compares, wants to know what Neal looks like when he’s not in control.

It’s intoxicating. Being able to feel the evidence of Neal’s attraction, to literally hold it in his hand, at once foreign and familiar.

“You can’t,” Neal gasps, “I know, you’re not – ” His eyes are wide, Peter’s mouth still tastes of cheap wine, the courtyard’s empty and quiet and Neal’s starting to move, slow, steady undulations of his hips, as if his body and his mind parted ways the second Peter touched him.

Peter’s not hard, not even halfway, but he feels arousal all throughout his body when Neal brings his right hand down and places it on top of Peter’s hand. Neal increases the pressure. It’s nothing like getting Elizabeth off, nothing like when he pleasures himself, it’s – somewhere in between. Someplace he didn’t know existed before he met Neal.

He grasps Neal’s cock as tightly as he can and Neal’s mouth falls open, his eyes flutter shut and then back open again. Peter lets Neal sets the pace and just watches. Learns what Neal looks like as he loses himself to pleasure, as it starts to overwhelm him, learns what Neal looks like when he comes. He looks beautiful. Mouth and eyes closed tight, muffled noises escaping from between his clenched teeth. It sounds like it hurts. It looks like it hurts. Neal presses their hands against himself even harder.

After he comes, he curls forward. Presses his forehead against Peter’s shoulder and shudders through the aftershocks.

It’s not until Neal looks up at him, flushed and unsteady in the aftermath of his orgasm, that it seems real. It’s not until Neal’s eyes do their familiar flicker from Peter’s eyes to his lips and then back again that he remembers where they are and who he is. Not until Neal tilts his face and leans into the last few inches that separate them that Peter pulls away. 

“I have a wife.” It feels like a surprise. “I have a wife,” he whispers into the dark of the courtyard, the sound of his voice masked by the sounds of celebration within. “I didn’t – I shouldn’t – ”

He knows what Neal looks like when he comes. And now he knows what Neal looks like when he’s heartbroken.

“You can’t,” Neal agrees, even though Peter just had. “I understand.” He stumbles, backing away. Sticky with his own come, still reeling from his orgasm. Peter steadies him without thinking and Neal doesn’t pull away from Peter’s touch. Just leans into his side for a scarce, unbearable second. “I understand.”

Neal goes back inside. Peter goes back home.

* * *

  
He sits in the dining room until sunrise. Three or four hours, give or take. Sitting in a stiff chair in the dark, the blur of the wine fading, a throbbing headache taking its place. Three or four hours and when Elizabeth comes downstairs for breakfast he still hasn’t figured out what to say.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, as soon as she sees him. He wonders what he looks like. A figure in the dark. He feels like a ghost; voiceless and terrible. “Did something happen? Is Neal okay?” She hurries over to him, holds his hands and stares into his eyes. The only light in the room is from the first streaks of dawn through the window. Elizabeth looks radiant.

“I have been,” he says, and he chokes on the words. She strokes his cheek soothingly and he jerks away from her. He hates himself for bringing Neal into their lives, their home, hates himself for ruining it. It takes every bit of his strength to keep talking. He’s never felt weaker before in his life. “I have been unfaithful.”

_Such an odd word,_ he thinks, as Elizabeth freezes, her mouth open and her hand outstretched. _Unfaithful_ when he’s never been more full of prayer. It’s not his faith that’s fled, he knows. Just his honor.

“With whom?” she asks. Her voice is ugly with tension “For how long?”

“Neal,” he answers. Her hand is quick and sure, the sound of it crisp and exciting. His cheek burns from the strike but she doesn’t move again.

“For how long?” she repeats.

“Only once. But it was – we – it’s been there for longer.” He’s known that it was more serious than a mere fancy for weeks.

She sobs, and he feels whatever was left of him crumble to shame. She continues a moment later, voice deceptively soft. “You know that I don’t like your work. You travel so much. Work such long hours. I feared – I feared the loss of time, Peter, about losing money and security, but I – ” He realizes that she’s crying a moment before she steps out of his reach. “But I never thought I’d lose you.”

_Unfaithful_, he thinks, as she turns around and walks away. He’ll have to ask Will about the word. Its origins and double meanings. And maybe years down the road he’ll see his confusion mirrored in some romantic comedy, cleaned up by Will’s words, clarified by the stage. Maybe then it will make sense.

He wants to ask Neal about it, suddenly, foolishly, ask him if he thinks it’s Peter’s heart or head or lack of faith that brought them together, that’s tearing his life apart.

Tears spill down his face and splash on his folded hands and he thinks about the look on his wife’s face. He has betrayed his faith, yes. His faith and his church and his vows and his wife of ten years, the woman who has stood by his side through more struggle than success. He has been unfaithful. He’s broken the most important promise he ever made.

She didn’t lose him. He lost her.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days before the royal performance he comes home to find Elizabeth standing stock-still in the doorway of their bedroom. “What’s going on?”

“Peter – did you remember our anniversary this year?”

“…oh, no. El, I swear, I meant to, I honestly did, I had a whole plan – ”

“Was this part of that plan you didn't make?” She moves to the side and he steps into the bedroom.

There’s a beautiful brocade dress laying across their bed. A deep crimson velvet gown, with a long angled collar. Expensive and sumptuous, exactly the kind of dress Elizabeth has been lusting after for months, exactly the kind of dress Neal had insisted he buy for Elizabeth. Peter knew he had a note somewhere in his desk reminding him about the date, and a list of tailors that Neal’s landlady vouched for, but he’s – he’s been a bit distracted, of late.

“It was Neal,” he whispers.

There’s a paper heart tucked underneath the collar of the dress. He takes it out and unfolds it carefully, Elizabeth reading it over his shoulder. It’s written in Neal’s painstakingly careful hand (a few letters twisted around or missing lines, but legible). _Look in your purse._ He checks it and finds a few papers. Neal had paid for the dress with money from Peter’s account but given them a receipt for the full value of the purchase should they decide that they couldn’t afford it, and a ticket with the time for a reservation with a tailor to get the dress fitted. All of the receipts are folded into flowers.

“He broke into our house, took your money, then broke in again to give me a present? Is this – Peter, is he trying to play some sort of game? Some sort of challenge for your affections?”

The gown is beautiful, the folded flowers a delicate, thoughtful bouquet in the palm of his hand. “I think he’s apologizing.”

“Peter – how long have you been lying to me?” Her voice is less steady but her face is still hard. Unfamiliar. “How long have you been unhappy with what we have?”

“I have never been unhappy with you,” he says, and she scoffs. “El. There hasn’t been a single morning since I met you that I haven’t woken up and known how incredibly lucky I am to have you in my life.”

“Then _why_? Do you love me so little? Or him so much?”

“No! El, it’s not – I don’t love you any less for loving him.” It’s not a truth he’d realized before. “I’m not unhappy, not with you and not with our life, I just – ” He searches for the words and realizes he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to articulate. “I want you both,” he finishes awkwardly. “Or – or I did, I mean, but I don’t, not anymore.” It may be a lie but it’s one he’s going to have to start believing, so he lets it stand.

“Can I trust you?” she asks.

He doesn’t know. He knows what he wants to say – he wants to promise her that he’ll never screw up that badly ever again, wants to kiss her, her lips and hands and feet, wants to get down on one knee and start all over again. But over the past weeks he’s learned a lot of new things about himself. About his heart and body and the cracks in his self-control.

“I don’t know.” Because he never would have thought that he’d do what he did. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. “I’m going to try,” he continues. “I’m going to try every day of my life that you’ll let me to make it up to you. To make up for having hurt you so badly. Please,” he whispers. “Give me a chance to try and fix this.”

She studies his face in silence. “I don’t understand why you did what you did,” she says. “And I’m trying to understand, Peter, I really am, but I just – I just _can’t_.” He braces himself against the words he’s been dreading over the past week. “I need more time,” she says, and he bites the inside of his cheek to stifle his relief that she hasn’t given up on him.

“Take as much time as you need,” he says, voice hoarse. “Thank you,” he says. For the time and the talk and the chance to redeem himself.

“Hmm.” Her frown doesn’t disappear, but she starts tracing her fingers over the detail work on the bodice of the gown. “Don’t think that Neal’s gift is going to make me forget the fact that you haven’t done a thing,” she says drily.

“I swear, I will make it up to you.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“So you want to keep it, then?” He gestures towards the dress with the hand full of receipts. “I can just toss these in the fireplace, if so.”

“I think I’ll keep them,” she says, taking the handful of blossoms from him. “But – I think this one was meant for you.” She tucks the folded heart into his pocket.

* * *

  
Their final performance is the most important. They pack up their costumes, their makeup and props, the canvas backdrops, and go to the palace. The queen files in, a silence falls over the room, and two actors dressed in guard outfits enter the stage.

Peter’s stomach is in knots. El stands by his side the entire time, holding his hand and running a soothing hand down his tense back. He’s never been comfortable in these circles, unnerved by the amount of finery and frippery and customs he doesn’t know to observe. He sweats through the performance, and when it’s over, the queen applauds. Every muscle in his body goes limp with relief.

The reception is held in one of the palace ballrooms. El was one of the primary organizers, so for the rest of the night, he hangs on her arm and supports her. Nods at the appropriate times, shakes hands and smiles stiffly, a glass of expensive wine untouched in his hand. Ever since that night with Neal, he’s lost his taste for it.

The actors join the crowd after about half an hour, having cleaned up the set and their belongings and changed into more appropriate garb. Neal (the first person his eyes seek out, despite the fact that he tells himself not to) is dressed, as always, in expensive but outdated clothes. He does his best not to pay attention, but he catches the look on Neal’s face as he finds himself alone in an unfamiliar crowd.

“He’s never been around this much nobility before, has he?”

“He might have robbed some of their estates, but other than that, I doubt it.” Neal could play a noble with the best of them (and, indeed, he’s been doing a passable impression thus far) but he’s out of his element. Surreptitiously watching the people around him for cues on how to shake hands, who to bow to, how loudly to speak. And no amount of acting can hide the fact that he just looks different. His clothes, his grace, the edge of nerves hidden under a thick layer of charm.

“He’s a brilliant actor,” El murmurs, leaning against his side, watching Neal take a breath to compose himself and reenter the fray. “How do you know he wasn’t pretending when he was with you?”

“I suppose I don’t,” he says, turning away so he won’t have to watch Neal pretend that he doesn’t care that he’s alone.

“I think you do,” El says, her hand a comfortable weight on the crook of his elbow. “I think maybe you do.” He follows the line of her gaze to Neal, who’s staring back at them, pain and envy and defeat obvious in his expression. Neal gives them a small, twisted smile when he meets their gaze, and then bows his head and walks away.

“You’ve created quite the mess,” she says, and he nods, head bowed. “Peter – did you mean what you said, before?”

“When I said what?”

Her eyes are soft, gentle; he wants to remind her that he doesn’t deserve her kindness. “Did you mean it when you said that you don’t love me any less by loving Neal? That if you have him, it doesn’t mean you’ll let me go?”

“My hunger for you,” he whispers, “increases with every moment you are near me.”

She smiles. “You don’t have to quote Shakespeare to woo me.” She kisses him, a chaste press of her lips against the side of his mouth. He’s missed that. Missed her. “If you’re wrong,” she says, “I will fight Neal for every scrap of your affection, for every moment of your time. And Peter? I will win. But if you’re right – ” he feels as though his heart has frozen in his body. “Then you have my blessing.” He should say no.

“Are you sure?” Because he’s certainly not. He’s not sure about any of this. The one thing his mistakes have taught him is that he needs to be more careful. But Elizabeth has always known his heart better than he does, she’s never steered them wrong before. Could this truly be the way to get back on course?

“If he loves you the same way you love him,” she says. “If he loves you even half as much as I do – then I think perhaps we can make this work.” He kisses her because he can’t bear not to, not for another second. “I won’t lose you,” she says.

“I love you,” he promises, and she nods and kisses him back and he thinks about the mess his life has become, how it’s finally beginning to make sense again.

* * *

  
He waits.

He waits three days to give Elizabeth time to change her mind, to give himself time to think it through, to let it sink in that the dream he’s been denying himself may be obtainable. He waits three days and then he gets up, walks Satchmeaux, kisses his wife, and goes to Neal Caffrey’s apartment. Rehearsals for _Twelfth Night_ start tomorrow and he’s crossing his fingers hoping that Neal will be home working on the new script. He doesn’t think he can wait any longer.

When he knocks on the door June’s the one who answers. He’s met her a few times when he walked Neal home, or picked him up in the morning. She blocks the entrance to her house with her body and glares up at him. “I’m – I’m here to see Neal?”

She doesn’t move. “Neal is a very special young man,” she says, her fingernails tapping an even pattern on the doorframe.

“I am aware of that.”

“He is very important to me.”

“He’s important to me, too,” he tells her.

“If you hurt him,” she says, and he hadn’t ever thought of June as scary before but he’s quickly revising his opinion, “I will hunt you down and make you regret it every day for the rest of your life. Have I made myself clear?” He swallows and nods. “Good. He’s upstairs. You know the way.”

He’s not nervous. Walking up the stairs to Neal’s apartment. His heart beats steadily in his chest, his breath is even, he knows what conclusions he and El have come to but he has no idea what Neal feels anymore. If he can forgive Peter the way El had, if he’s willing to share the same way she is.

He squares his shoulders and knocks three times on the door. When Neal answers Peter opens his mouth and realizes that he has no idea what to say. No glib openers or fancy quotes or apologies that will ever be enough to cover the damage he’s caused, the hurt he inflicted.

“Hello,” Neal says, after an awkward pause.

“Hello.”

Neal waits and Peter opens his mouth a few times, hoping that something eloquent will emerge. Nothing does.

“Um – did you come here to fire me?” Neal asks, his face scrunched up in confusion. “Because if you are, I’d really prefer if you’d just say it – ”

“Oh, god, no – nothing like that. No way am I going to go through casting someone else, I still can’t believe I was lucky enough to find you as quickly as I did.”

Neal’s smile is small but bright. “So what are you here for, then?”

“To apologize,” Peter says. “For everything. I never should have done what I did.”

It’s like a curtain’s been drawn over Neal’s face, he goes expressionless so quickly. “Right. Apology accepted. You can get rid of whatever guilt you’ve been carrying around, and go on with your life.”

He has to stick his foot in the door to keep Neal from shutting it on him. “No, Neal, that’s not – ” he groans. “Can I please come in? It might take me a little bit to figure out how to say this.”

“How to say _what_?” Neal asks, not budging from the doorway.

“That I _like_ you,” Peter growls.

Neal’s lip curls into a nasty smirk. “So, what – you’re here to see if I’ll keep it a secret? You can get your rocks off, and I’ll – ”

“I want you in my life,” he interrupts, because the scorn and pain in Neal’s voice is unbearable. “In whatever way you’ll have me. No more lies, no sneaking around behind Elizabeth’s back. Will is writing a role for you that’s going to make you a star. My wife is setting a place at our table for you. And I’m – I’m offering – well. Me,” he says, with a shrug and a wince. “And that’s – that’s the best I’ve got. If you want it.”

Neal kisses him. Quickly, urgently, his thin body pressed up against Peter’s, his soft lips against Peter’s mouth – and it’s everything he hadn’t known he wanted. Real and awkward and he wants to kiss Neal for hours, forever, wants to run his hands over Neal’s body and feel the muscles and curves and planes that he’s been staring at for weeks. It’s messy and fast and Neal pulls back with a gasp, it seems impossible that they aren’t still kissing.

“Is Elizabeth – I don’t want to hurt her, I swear, I’ll stop right now if that’s what’s going to happen – ”

He interrupts Neal this time. Drags his lower lip between his teeth, tangles his hands in the soft curls of Neal’s hair. “We’re not hurting her,” he whispers when he pulls back to breathe. “I want you,” he whispers, and Neal pulls him inside his apartment, kisses him until they’re both breathless and then kisses him some more.

Neal is pale and thin and beautiful, his trust a gift more delicate than any paper heart, and Peter vows to be as careful with it as he can.

* * *

  
He frames the poster he’d saved from Neal’s first performance and hangs it next to the flyer from _Hamlet_. El buys a vase and keeps her growing collection of paper flowers in it. Neal plays a host of heroines and then heroes as he grows older, and at some point in every performance he turns his face to the audience and meets Peter’s gaze.

It’s not smooth or funny or tragic, not perfect and not an ending, but Peter’s grateful for it nonetheless.


End file.
